Love in the Age of Heroes: Ubiquitous Legends of Unrequited Love (3rd Installment)

Part 3: Coroebus’ Kismet

The shadows deepened as Cassandra stood at the shore of a riverbank, and watched the moon sway on the black surface of the water. She wondered if the moon goddess watched over them, hovering over the distant mountains when Arisbe approached and asked the Trojan Princess how they would proceed.

      After a moment, Cassandra instructed Calchas to secure the horses, and start a fire. Calchas then proceeded to retrieve tents from their saddlebags as Arisbe began to prepare a stew. They ate a little, and sat around the fire to keep warm.

      Arisbe asked Calchas if he had ever been to the Temple of the Mother Goddess on Mount Ida. The old priest, however, confessed that he had never set foot in a temple beyond the walls of Troy.

      “I’m a servant of Apollo. Until now, I have had no business in a temple of a goddess.” Said Calchas.

      Cassandra stared blankly into the fire, and her mind wandered as the orange glow reminded her of the Sun god. She had stood near the spring where she had planned to bathe, wearing a thin, blue tunic when a flash of lightning flickered behind her. She felt a strange presence. Tingles rushed her spine.

Cautiously, she turned and saw a tall figure stand before her. It was he. Apollo. And he was naked!

Cassandra froze, her eyes focused on his broad, golden chest, before she looked up at the handsome, riveting features of his face. Her mouth dry, Cassandra remained silent as she stepped into his embrace; beckoned by an unknown desire that burned within her heart. He had whispered her name into her ear when he held her, and tenderly kissed her frontal lobe. She felt safe in his embrace; his strong arms held her as if he would never let go.

      She quivered as every inch of his impeccant body pressed intimately against her own. He cupped her cheeks in his large hands and tilted her head up to meet his penetrating stare. Cassandra had gazed into his iridescent hazel eyes that had hypnotized her, and stared into her soul.

      The heat of his presence permeated her faltering resistance, beckoning her with intense, concupiscent longing that weakened her knees.

      Then, impassioned, demanding lips claimed her own. She caught her breath. She’d never kissed a man; much less a god, and she felt a stirring in her soul. Instinctively, Cassandra wrapped her arms around his broad and muscular shoulders. And all the while, he ravished her mouth and bewitched her senses.

      Apollo’s hands roamed along her lower back before they slid around her hips, as he pressed his priapic presence against her lower abdomen.

It had felt like an age since he’d last experienced a woman’s touch. So long since he’d fallen victim to the poisoned arrows of love.

      At first, Cassandra savored the sweet taste of honey that dripped from his lips. Her yearning intensified with a mixture of fear as she felt his manhood pulse against her body. But as he lifted her thin, blue tunic, she pulled away from his embrace.

      Not like this!

      “My lady?” Arisbe whispered.

      Cassandra woke with a start, and observed the inquietude that filled Arisbe’s eyes. They had heard movement among the shadows, but whether it was a lion or a wild boar they did not know.

Calchas hid in his tent and left the two women to the fate of the night. Cassandra brandished the sword her mother gave her and called out to Calchas.

“I am a priest, not a warrior.” He said.

“You are a coward.” Said Cassandra, and she motioned Arisbe to stand behind her when they heard another sound in the brush.

“That sword, alone, won’t be enough to protect you against great numbers.” Said a deep masculine voice.

      “Reveal yourself!” Demanded Cassandra.

      The man emerged from the shadows. The orange glow of the fire reflected in his eyes when he paused and looked down at her curiously. His wavy, brown hair fell to his shoulders and framed his handsome face. Dark brown eyebrows curved over his large brown eyes that studied and admired her.

“Identify yourself.” Said Cassandra.

But when he did not answer she stepped forward, pointing her sword at his chest, and informed him that she was a princess of Troy.

He gazed into her bright blue eyes, his face stoic and impressed. “You are a long way from home. What is a princess of Troy doing alone in these parts?”

“That is not your concern. Who are you?” Said Cassandra.

“When you roam through my lands, unannounced, it becomes my concern.” He paused as a group of his men emerged from the darkness. “I am Coroebus, son of King Mygdon of Phrygia. Our fathers are allies, so it baffles me that notice had not been sent by King Priam of your journey.”

Cassandra remained silent.

“Speak, woman. What is your business in Phrygia?” Said Coroebus.

“Don’t say woman to me in that tone of voice,” said Cassandra. “I am not your wife, nor your concubine. I am a princess of Troy, and my business is my own. Honor the alliance between our kingdoms, and we shall leave your land by morning.”

The corners of Coroebus’ mouth twitched. She displayed a passionate disposition as untamed as her fiery red hair.

“Perhaps we should escort her back to your father’s kingdom, and send word to King Priam that we have located his daughter?” Suggested one of Coroebus’ men.

“No!” Said Arisbe.

Cassandra turned and shot Arisbe a penetrating stare.

Coroebus tilted his head. “Gods. It appears we have struck a nerve.”

Cassandra turned to Coroebus and in that instant she realized that he was tall and powerful, and if he wished, he could have had his way with her, and she would be impuissant to stop him.

A tremor of anxiety reverberated through her, but her instincts told her that he could be trusted.

“We must speak alone.” Said Cassandra.

Coroebus contemplated her suggestion. He looked into her troubled, bright blue eyes, and searched for the source of her swivet. Finally, he shrugged his broad shoulders and instructed his men to remain at a distance while he, sat with Cassandra and Arisbe by the fire. Eventually, Calchas emerged from his tent and sat beside them to hear Cassandra’s words.

“We are here tonight, because of a prophecy revealed to my mother nineteen years ago.”

Coroebus shifted in his seat, and Arisbe pulled her cloak tighter around her body.

“Two nights before my mother gave birth to my twin brother, Paris, and me, she dreamt that Troy burned. Aesacus interpreted the dream, and my father decided to leave Paris exposed on Mount Ida. He was found, and spared, by Agelaus who raised Paris as his own son.”

Coroebus’ men silently approached the fire to hear the tale despite Cassandra’s request for privacy.

“My brother remained on Mount Ida for seventeen years, and knew nothing of his royal pedigree until he arrived in Troy, and I recognized him as my brother. Though, truth be told, I do not know how I knew who he was, since I had never been told of his existence.”

“How did King Priam and Queen Hecuba react to his presence?” Coroebus asked.

“When I declared that he was my brother, and told my parents that I had often seen him in my dreams as a child, they were forced to confess the truth to us, and accepted him into our home.”

“Did anyone not wonder why he returned?” Coroebus asked.

“My father believed that it was the will of the gods.” Said Cassandra. “And I knew this to be true when other visions came to me during our time together.”

“Visions?” Said Coroebus, suspiciously.

Cassandra considered her next words carefully. She felt inclined to divulge her encounters with Apollo, and how the Sun god first revealed himself to her prior to Paris’ return. But she remembered that with the gift of prophecy, bestowed upon her by Apollo, came the curse that none would believe her, and she would be thought mad.

“Paris’ return marked the fulfillment of the prophecy. Now he journey’s to Sparta to claim the prize that Aphrodite promised him, and he has dismissed my warnings that his actions will lead to the fall of Troy.”

“What prize?” Said Coroebus.

“Aphrodite promised him the love of the most beautiful woman on Earth, Helen of Sparta, and if he returns with her, he will bring the wrath of Greece with her.”

“So you wish to flee your city, rather than stand and fight?” Asked one of Coroebus’ soldiers.

“No!” Cassandra stood and faced him. “I journey to Mount Ida to seek the assistance of the Mother Goddess in preventing this great tragedy.”

“What assurances do you have that the Mother Goddess will assist you?” Said Coroebus.

“I have none, but still, I must try.” Said Cassandra. “I cannot permit my brother to bring forth the destruction of our city for the sake of his desire.”

“But to prevent your brother from claiming his prize, is to undermine the will of the goddess, Aphrodite.” Said Coroebus.

      “Then, so be it!” Said Cassandra.

      “You do not wish to make an enemy of Aphrodite.” Said Coroebus.

      “By granting my brother the wife of one of the most powerful kings of Greece, knowing the result would bring the largest fleet that ever sailed across the Aegean to make war with my people…” Cassandra said, meeting his eyes with a hard stare. “She has already made an enemy of me.”

      Rising slowly to his feet, Coroebus stared at Cassandra. He admired her courage, and respected her resolve. Despite her polemical position, he was drawn to her, and he decided that regardless of the punishment that would come down from the gods, he would accompany her on her journey.

      She refused his offer. “I cannot endanger the lives of you and your men on an expedition against the gods.”

      “As your allies, it is our duty to stand beside you, regardless of the enemy.” Said Coroebus.

      “Speak for yourself, Lord Coroebus. I do not wish to incur the wrath of the gods, namely that of Aphrodite.” Said one of Coroebus’ soldiers.

      “Gordias has a point.” Said another soldier. “Aphrodite has a notoriously fierce temper.”

      “It is a perilous ploy to take action against that which Aphrodite wishes to see come to fruition.” Said Gordias. “It would be prudent to remember the legend of Hippolytus and Phaedra.”

      “What legend?” Said Cassandra.

      Coroebus reclaimed his seat beside the fire. Cassandra too sat beside him, and his men approached to hear the disturbing legend of unrequited love.

      Hippolytus, son of Theseus the founder-king of Athens, returned to the home of his father when he had reached manhood; he had grown into a handsome and athletic young man. To the displeasure of Aphrodite, he worshipped Artemis, and many believe that that had been the source of his misfortune.

      A strong bond grew between father and son, and much to Theseus’ delight, his wife, Phaedra, grew fond of her stepson. She saw in Hippolytus a young man endowed with the qualities of his father, and of an age corresponding to her own. Soon, however, Phaedra’s fondness morphed into an unquenchable desire, but Hippolytus took no notice of her.

      She turned to Aphrodite, and had confessed her undying love for Hippolytus. Phaedra had revealed that thoughts of her stepson had consumed her days, and longing left her nights empty despite the presence of her infatuated husband. Phaedra believed that Theseus merely married her for her beauty, and not out of romantic cacoethes. She divulged that when she bathed, she imagined Hippolytus’ hands caressing her body, as gently as the water; and regardless of her sensibilities, she could not conquer the love that overwhelmed her with shame.

The goddess of love agreed to appease her heart, and waited until Theseus was away from home. But her efforts proved futile when Hippolytus dismissed Aphrodite and incurred her wrath.

Unbeknownst to all, Hippolytus took no notice of women, and the love of any woman disgusted him. Much to his dismay, when Phaedra’s nurse pleaded with him to open his heart, he was horrified and abhorred Phaedra’s love for him. He withdrew with loathing, and in furious indignation expressed that women filled him with revulsion.

So distraught at the idea of betraying his father, he fled from his father’s home and vowed never to return, save for when Theseus would be present.

Rejected and crestfallen, Phaedra asked her nurse to abandon all hope for love, and with melancholic tears she went about to settle her affairs. Her secret passion led to despair, and when Theseus returned he found Phaedra dead with a letter in her hand.

Upon reading the letter, stained with tears and blood, Theseus announced that his son had laid violent hands on Phaedra that led to her death. Angry, and grief-stricken, Theseus summoned Poseidon and imprecated one of the three wishes granted to him by the God of the Sea.

Hippolytus argued his innocence, swearing upon Zeus that he had never touched his father’s wife, had never possessed a desire for her, and never gave her a second thought. Theseus, however, rejected his son’s claims and sent him into exile. And though Hippolytus could have proven his incorruptibility, he maintained his vow of silence to Phaedra’s nurse, and never named her as his source of information.

He departed from his father’s home, but when he reached the shores of the sea, death rose from the waters to claim him at the behest of Poseidon.

Theseus would have remained blind to the facts had Artemis not appeared before him and told him the truth. Hippolytus had then been carried back into the home of the king, and the goddess, Artemis Kalliste, permitted Theseus the privilege of holding his son one last time.

Before Artemis and Hippolytus vanished from sight, the goddess revealed to Theseus that it was not he who killed his son. She exposed Aphrodite as the true culprit, and vowed that she would avenge the death of her favored devotee on a follower of the goddess of love.

“Even with the knowledge of these events, Coroebus, you still wish to embark on a journey to challenge the will of Aphrodite?” Said Gordias. The other soldiers murmured in agreement.

“Your men are right.” Said Cassandra. “This is too great a risk for you and your people—“

“Lady Cassandra,” Coroebus interrupted. “My men may return to their homes at first light. I will not ask them to die for a cause that they do not believe in.” He turned to his men and instructed them to choose their own path, as he would not command them to accompany him on this quest.

Coroebus then turned to Cassandra, the princess of Troy with eyes as blue as sapphire, and hair as red as a sunset. Never before had a woman impressed him with her courage, and her determination to save the people she loved in the face of insurmountable odds. All others had waited in expectation for someone else to solve their problems.

But not this one…

She was different.

He studied her momentarily. Her fair skin appeared to glow against the moonlight. She possessed a lovely innocence and a spark of feistiness that enchanted him, and he knew that it was his destiny to walk with her into the darkness.

“Lady Cassandra, I, Coroebus, son of King Mygdon of Phrygia, am at your service, and will follow you to the ends of the Earth.”

To be continued…

Love in the Age of Heroes: Ubiquitous Legends of Unrequited Love (2nd Installment)

Part 2: Queen Hecuba's Contrivance

The chamber was dark, save for the sunlight falling in through the window. Cassandra watched from a tower of high-walled Troy as her brothers prepared to embark on their journey across the Aegean to Sparta. She always admired Hector’s bravery, and Paris’ honesty in judgment, and she worried that they sailed to their doom. When the door opened, Cassandra remained still as her servants bowed and shrank into the shadows.

     “Leave us.” Said Queen Hecuba.

     The maid servants scurried out of the chamber, the last pulled the door closed behind her.

     “Hector came to me with word of that which troubles your mind.” Said the Queen.

     “It is not only my mind, mother, but my heart.” Cassandra said, and lowered her eyes.

     “Come, my dear Cassandra,” she said, and led her to a bench. Hecuba sat beside her and leaned forward to hold her daughter’s hand.

     “Everyone believes I have gone mad.” Said Cassandra.

     “We both know that is not true.” Hecuba reassured her.

     Cassandra looked up at her mother, and saw the empathy in her deep blue eyes. Her auburn hair had been drawn back smoothly from her brow and fell in gentle waves over her shoulders.

     “I went to father, but he will not listen. Hector and Paris are about to leave for Sparta and—“

     “Men have a tendency to believe what they want to believe when it suits them.” Said the Queen.

     Cassandra scoffed.

     Hecuba brandished a sword from the folds of her robe, and admired the weapon before placing the hilt in her daughter’s hand. She shared with her daughter the memory of her own father’s tribe, and how the women trained like the men with sword and spear. She longed for the days when she wielded a sword and walked among her people like a lioness, a warrior-queen.

     Now, she lived as the consort to a king. A queen’s place is in the palace. She mused with resentment. Despite wielding great power during her husband’s presence on the battlefield, she felt that her status as a woman had been diminished to placate the pride of men.

     When she had chosen to marry a man from a land beyond her own borders, she had consented to his domination; she had accepted his gods, because he was her husband and she loved him. This time, however, she would not stand idly by and permit her children to be pawns for the gods.

“Three years ago, when you first saw your brother, you knew who he was. Did you not?” Hecuba asked.

“Yes, but no one believed me when I said that—“

“I know.” The Queen interrupted. “I believed you then, just as I believe you now.”

Hecuba spoke of Hermes, the Messenger of the Gods, who had come to her with a dark omen prior to the birth of her twins, Paris and Cassandra. She recounted the nightmare of her son, crawling with snakes and burning like a torch, a fire that consumed all of Troy. The Queen knew that the prophecy foretold by Aesacus, after he interpreted her dream, and Cassandra’s visions were one in the same.

When King Priam insisted that they not challenge the will of the gods, Hecuba questioned his blind devotion at the expense of his own child’s life. She knew that the gods intended to see Troy fall, but felt in her heart that not all stood in accordance with this fate.

Although Hera, the wife of Zeus, would not intervene directly, because Paris had insulted her when he thought Aphrodite more beautiful than she, Hecuba remembered Hera’s vengeance. Perhaps, if Cassandra shed light on another of Zeus’ infidelities then she would be inclined to unleash her wrath again.

“If you are to prevent this tragedy, then you must leave immediately!” Said the Queen.

They stood, and walked to the center of the chamber. Queen Hecuba summoned one of her servants, and helped Cassandra hide the sword in the folds of her robe.

“When you need this, wield it just as I have taught you.” Said the Queen.

Cassandra nodded.

Hecuba instructed Arisbe to help Cassandra depart the city in secret, and to take her to the shrine of the Mother Goddess on Mount Ida.

“Leave an offering, and pray that the goddess will grant you an audience.” Said the Queen.

They exited the chamber and raced to Cassandra’s quarters to pack the necessities for their journey. In hushed a tone, Hecuba revealed to Cassandra the betrayal that she should present to the Mother Goddess.

“Shall I summon a guard to accompany us, my lady?” Arisbe asked.

“No!” Hecuba said. “My daughter is aptly capable of protecting herself. I have taught her well.”

Cassandra smiled at her mother. She had always believed Hecuba to be the most queenly and beautiful woman in the world, and to know that her mother held her in such high regard filled her with pride.

“Men find it difficult to keep their mouths shut. I will not endanger this plan by divulging its details to a soldier who would just as easily repeat it to one of my husband’s personal guard.”

As Arisbe led Cassandra through the crowded market, pulling the hoods of their cloaks close to their necks, they arrived at a shrine of Apollo. Arisbe requested a moment to make an offering to the god of light that also had the epithet, Alexicacus, the protector.

“Given the dangers that lie beyond the walls of Troy, we may yet need his blessings, my lady.”

Cassandra looked upon his statue, and recognized him as he had once appeared before her. She had wandered along an unknown path, on the mountainside, to bathe in a private spring, and ponder her destiny. She’d had many suitors, but never had she felt love. Too often they praised her beauty, but seldom did any of her would-be lovers inquire about her interests and her passions. No man had previously inspired any desire in her heart, until she met him.

His bronze skin complemented those penetrating hazel eyes that she was certain looked into her soul. His brown curls framed his handsome face, and before she could demand to know his name, and insist that he not take another step towards her, he smiled. His sensuous lips curved slightly, displaying a set of dimples that carved half-moons into his handsome face, and softened her stance. He approached her slowly, like a lion stalking his prey, and when he emerged from behind the bushes, he was naked. His body was sleek, lean, and immaculate. He resembled the statues that depicted him as the ideal “kouros,” a beardless, athletic youth.

She glanced again into his hazel eyes that seared in their intensity and burned with desire. He stepped into the spring and drew near, as she could do nothing but stare. He swept his gaze over her thick, fiery red hair, and her bright blue eyes that shone like sapphire. Her fair skin felt warm against him, and he felt that every curve of her body was proof that even mortal women should be worshipped among the gods.

The other mortal women with whom he had consorted fell in love with him instantly, but he could sense that this one was different.

Apollo embraced Cassandra, and she felt the strength of his body, in its entire splendor, reveal his intentions. With mortal women, the gods often did as they pleased, but Apollo hesitated. He decided that he would not force himself upon her, simply to lose himself in the savoring of her body.

“You are Apollo.” Said Cassandra.

He ushered her hair out of her face and tucked the strands behind her ears. “Yes.”

“Why are you here?” She asked.

“My lady, come, we must go.” Arisbe said, taking hold of Cassandra’s hand and led her away from the shrine.

As they navigated through the crowd, they overheard a soldier instruct another to send guards to the southeastern gate and seize the princess, Cassandra.

Arisbe shot Cassandra a worried look before she pulled the princess into a vacant alley. They spoke in hushed tones, and deliberated how they would avoid detection when someone gripped Cassandra’s elbow.

Startled, she turned and reached for the sword hidden beneath her robe, but felt relief upon seeing the handsome face of her youngest brother.

“Troylus, what are you doing here?” Cassandra asked.

“Mother sent me to assist you in fleeing the city.” He lowered his head, and pulled his hood closer when a group of soldiers ran past. “Father has learned of your ploy, and is furious. He has instructed guards to secure the gates to the city to prevent you from departing.”

“What are we going to do, my lady?” Arisbe asked.

“Come,” said Troylus. “I have horses waiting for you beyond the city walls.”

“But you just said that father—“

“I know what I said, dear sister, but I never said I was taking you to the gates.”

He led Cassandra and Arisbe along the winding, crowded streets of Troy, and after they turned into a long and empty alley, they arrived at a wooden door. He knocked softly and waited.

“Where are we?” Cassandra whispered.

Before he could answer, the door opened and a lovely young woman greeted them. Her long brown hair fell in gentle waves to the small of her back, and her fair skin seemed to glow against her deep blue robe.

“Cressida, this is my sister Cassandra, and my mother’s servant, Arisbe.” Said Troylus as they entered her home.

Cassandra noted how wistfully Cressida’s brown eyes looked upon Troylus, and how the glow of love reddened his cheeks when he looked upon her, too. Arisbe and Cassandra exchanged a furtive glance as Cressida’s father, Calchas the priest, entered the room.

“Is everything in order?” Calchas asked.

“Yes.” Said Troylus. “The horses will be waiting. You must set out for Mount Ida, immediately. Ride until sunset to ensure you won’t have long to travel in the morning.”

The group entered a back room, and Troylus helped Calchas move a mattress and a wooden board beneath it to reveal a trapdoor. As Calchas led Cassandra and Arisbe into the dark shaft that led to an exit beyond the high walls of Troy, they heard pounding on the front door.

Troylus and Cressida looked at each other and knew that he could not be discovered in her home without her father’s presence. The pounding continued, and the soldiers demanded to be allowed to enter, lest they force entry.

Cassandra, and her caravan fled into the shadows as Troylus climbed into the tunnel after them. Cressida replaced the mattress and wooden board as best she could, but as she raced into the front room to answer the door, the soldiers thrust it open and barged in.

“We know that Cassandra was here!” Said Deiphobus, Cassandra and Troylus’ brother.

Cressida quivered with fear. She would not betray her lover, and wondered who, within the royal house, had betrayed the Queen, the prince and the princess.

To be continued…

Love in the Age of Heroes: Ubiquitous Legends of Unrequited Love (1st installment)

Part One: Cassandra’s Curse

When the gods intervened on mortal affairs, as they often did in Ancient Times, their whispers summoned the children of destiny.

Cassandra begged him not to go. She warned her brother, Paris, that his return from Sparta would bring tragedy, not love. The frenzied look in her bright blue eyes frightened him, but he pulled his arm from her grasp. He pondered her counsel, and felt the conviction in her voice.

“I love you, sister, and I appreciate your concern.” He said as he brushed the curly strands of her long fiery red hair away from her face. But the goddess had made him a promise, and he would cross the Aegean to claim his prize.

“Please, listen to reason.” She said. Tears cascaded along her fair skin, but he would not be deterred. He turned away and marched towards his chariot; her cries faded in the distance.

“Think of father, think of Hector, and think of Troy!” She cried.

The visions flashed across her mind. Her father, and her brother would die at the hands of their rivals. Their city would be lost to the misfortunes of love. Aphrodite had intervened and Apollo had ensured that none would heed Cassandra’s prophecy. The world would remember the gods and the heroes of their time, and for Apollo it would be inevitable that the fairest would always remind him of unrequited love.

She raced through the palace, a riffle wind stirred, and her hair lashed gently across her face. Lightning flared across the sky, and she paused in the courtyard to study the heavens. When she turned to the doorframe she observed a figure walking in her direction. Cassandra shrank inwardly; did anyone else see him, had he come to intercept her?

He spoke. His voice deep and soft as he extended his hand and summoned Cassandra. She fought the inner dread that filled her with anxiety, and wondered if he intended to harm her. Looking up at him, she studied the form he took, unable to recognize his face, yet able to identify his presence.

“Apollo?” She said. Her hand shivered when she felt his cold flesh.

The shadow of a smile emerged from the stern look on his face, and he drew her under his arm.

“Come, Cassandra, walk with me.” He towered over her.

She obeyed, but whether she did so out of fear or because of the strength with which he held her, she could not tell. With his arm around her shoulder Apollo guided her along a cobbled path to a nearby garden. When they arrived at the center of an empty garden, Apollo pulled her close to him, and held her in an embrace so that she could feel his manhood rise against her body.

His cold flesh now felt warm, as if fevered, and she felt comfort in his arms.

“I can take away the pain, Cassandra.” Said Apollo.

He lifted her chin and when she looked into his hazel eyes, she knew he was telling the truth. For it had been known that no false word ever fell from his lips. When her glance fell upon his lips, she remembered how passionately he had kissed her when he had professed his love. But she could not reciprocate that love, and now the doom of Troy walked hand in hand with the destiny of her heart.

No, not like this! She pulled away from Apollo. Her bright blue eyes shone like sapphires and searched his features for forgiveness.

He caressed her cheek and ran his fingers through her bright red hair. His touch reaffirmed his compassion, and the lightning flickered around his form and face. For a moment it seemed that he was no longer a god enraged, and she no longer his hopeless obsession.

Apollo leaned forward and kissed her with profound tenderness. Cassandra closed her eyes, and when she opened them, he had vanished. She looked around, but the garden remained empty. A strong wind brushed past, and a flicker of errant lightning reminded her of her burden.

Andromache!

Cassandra fled the courtyard in search of her brother Hector’s wife. She raced through the corridors, her eyes frantically searching between pillars and nameless faces. She bumped into an elderly woman and knocked her to the stone lined ground. Cassandra turned as if she would assist the woman to her feet, but remembered her dilemma and left others to come to her aid.

“Pobes!” Cassandra said. “Where is your sister?”

“She is in her bedchamber with Hector. What’s wrong?”

“I’ll explain later. I must speak with them both immediately.”

Cassandra ascended a flight of stairs and pounded on the double doors of their bedchamber. Andromache pulled the wooden doors open, but before she could speak her sister-in-law immediately began to plead for her assistance. Hector approached and wrapped his arms around Cassandra to calm her.

“You look like you have met with the Ferryman himself. What troubles you, sister?”

“Paris must not accompany you to Sparta!” Cassandra cried.

Hector looked perplexed and listened to Cassandra as he escorted her to a bench at the far end of the bedchamber. She begged him to take leave for Sparta without Paris, for if Paris set foot in the kingdom of Sparta then the tragedy of Troy, as foretold by Aesacus, would come to fruition.

“Troy will burn. I have seen it!” Cassandra said as Andromache sat beside her.

Hector dismissed Cassandra’s premonition and assured her that their mission was for peace.

“Father insists that Paris accompany me to Sparta to liaise in his stead, and solidify our alliance with the Spartans.”

He knew, all too well, the fallacies of prophecy, and he understood his father’s position. King Priam felt guilty over his decision to send Paris to be killed on the day of his birth, because of a prophecy, but it had been nearly two decades, and no such tragedy had taken place. The king felt that the time had come for Paris to take his place as a prince of Troy.

“It is our duty to serve as representatives on behalf of father, for the peace he has worked so hard to achieve.” Said Hector.

Cassandra shook her head. Andromache stroked her back to comfort her.

“Paris does not intend to journey in the name of peace. He goes because Aphrodite has promised him a prize for naming her the loveliest goddess. He seeks to claim Helen of Sparta, the most beautiful woman in the world, as his own.”

“You have a wild imagination, sweet sister.” Hector smiled.

Cassandra stood. Her eyes hardened and she glared at her brother, Hector.

“The gods, with their squabbles, and their passions, and their vanity have doomed us. And father’s favorite, Phoebus Apollo, who loves me more than any mortal man could ever love a woman has cursed me with the knowledge that none should believe my words, since I am unable to return his love.”

“This is madness!” Hector stood, but before he said another word, Cassandra fled the bedchamber in tears.

If no mortal would listen, and the gods had indeed cursed humankind, then she had but one other option. The conundrum, however, was that The Fates answered to no one, not even the gods, and if Cassandra hoped to enlist their aid, she would need to find their mother, Nyx. But to find the one who stood near the beginning of creation, Cassandra would need to journey into the shadows of the world, for the goddess only ever seen in glimpses.

To be continued…

Shall We Dance?

How often do we ponder our place in the world?

Some of us do so daily, others never, and most of us do so on occasion.

As writers, we have the good fortune of knowing our lot in life, and I daresay we exist solely for our readers.

Suffice it to say that as a parent I exist for my children, but at the moment—for the purposes of this blog—I present my case as a writer.

The relationship between reader and writer is unique in that a reader initially bestows upon us writers a certain unearned trust.

Akin to a blind date; a dance with a stranger; a kiss in the rain, under a bridge, on a long walk on a Sunday afternoon with someone we just met.

There’s something that captivates us about strangers and the unknown. Is it the mystery of the unfamiliar, the romantic unveiling of kismet, or merely enchantment passing through?

Whatever the ambiguous premise is that elicits our interest, the fact is that we all take chances. A writer takes a chance by beginning a story without knowing how it will end, and a reader takes a chance by doing the same thing.

This is when that trust must be earned, during the dance between the reader and the writer, a merging of the minds and a nexus between the souls.

We will seduce you with words, and lure you in as we paint you a picture of what promises to be the beginning of a beautiful relationship. We will whisper eloquent passages and swirl you with plot twists that will leave you bewildered. We will try to make you think, and hope that we have made you wonder. And in the end when the dance is over, and the song of story has concluded, we hope you will trust us to dance again.

Earning a reader’s trust is quite the challenge, one that begins with query letters and agents. As writers, we continue to develop our craft, perfecting our dance and rehearsing by way of revisions. It takes time, it takes years, and in some cases it takes our lives. As writers, this is what we live for, a passion we will pursue throughout our lives, and we will often make the greatest sacrifices to that end.

To ensure our readers will return, it is incumbent upon us writers to establish our rhythm and captivate our audience with the pacing and ingenuity of our prose. It is a creative process that forces us to reach deep into our hearts, and that is the beauty of what we do; because from true love comes pure passion.

This is our lot in life: the dancers of discourse, and the scribes of literary symphonies. We accept this fate with thick skin and blind faith; because we once contemplated our place in the world and discovered that writing is what we were born to do.

Now, my friends, the storyteller’s song is playing. Shall we dance?

“Many people shy away from dancing because they ‘don’t know how to dance.’ But real dancers are the ones who can hear the music in their soul.” ~Unknown

What Came First...?

In her book, Mythology, Edith Hamilton wrote: “The Greeks did not believe that the gods created the universe. It was the other way about: the universe created the gods.”

Could this conceivably be the creative conundrum of the storyteller’s existence? Does the writer create the story or does the story create the writer?

The analogousness of a writer’s creative process with Creation myths that span millennia—among various religions—can only hint at the frustration and wonder that a writer endures.

Long before the characters (gods) emerge from the void of formless Chaos and unending darkness, lies a formless plethora of potential plots, but no definitive story.

Our consciousness attempts to formulate a storyline, but almost always—like recent attempts by physicists to develop a Theory of Everything—the “equation” collapses, and the would-be story crumbles.

There are moments when we writers merely sit with a blank stare for hours on end and wait for that whisper from our soul that lures us along a path that we have yet to travel. The beauty of such a moment is when we fall down a rabbit-hole and find ourselves in a wonderland of our own creation. The tragedy is when that whisper is lost like a scent in a breeze and we ache for the echo of imaginative introspection.

Occasionally a spark in our sleep ignites the fires of our artistic hearth, and we write from our dreams, the cinema of the mind—as Robert Olsen Butler once called it.

Then there are those moments when we act out of desperation and try to force it.

The result: a work more cerebral than quixotic.

Even though a first draft is expected to be crude and in need of extensive revisions, it just feels as though that first draft begins below sea level when we force the writing. Making the climb along the steep slope to respectable writing, that much more arduous.

So where does one begin? How does one begin? Does the writer even have any control over the creation process or is the act of creation the will of the gods?

We read, we write, we imagine, we think, we walk, we take a nap, we prepare another cup of coffee and we wait.

One minute doubles, and then it doubles again, and then sixty seconds later we look at the clock and notice five minutes have passed.

(Crickets chirp)

Five minutes are an eternity when we have other obligations to which we must direct our attention. But we must allow ourselves to linger in that ocean of absent imagination, and watch as the “aha” moment materializes out of nothingness like a Big Bang that explodes in a primordial ocean of Chaos.

It is quite conceivable that we can create the perfect conditions by continuously reading, writing, and consuming coffee with our favorite flavored creamers. Thus, having as much to do with the creation process as we do with the creative process of writing a novel.

To the world of our imagination, we are the gods, the omnipresent entities in the universe of our stories. We grant our characters a certain amount of free will, and although that can work against us, there’s still nothing in the world that we’d rather do!

We decide the destiny of our characters, and we write the stories that emerge from our creative core. Whether we create the story and it becomes a completed novel, or the stories become published and we earn the title of published author; it may be a query without end akin to the conundrum of the chicken and the egg.

In the end it becomes a new beginning, and we ask ourselves if we began at the end. The endless cycle of creation and completion is what we live for, because it’s the only way that a writer truly feels alive. Most may never truly understand our eccentricities, save for the gods of legend who often interfered on mortal affairs, and though we didn’t create the universe in which we live, we long to contribute to our world a written reminder that we once lived and died as writers.

“Let us be silent, so that we may hear the whispers of the gods.”

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

A Writer's Worry

We worry often and usually from day one. Our worrying begins when the blank page stares at us and dares us to scrawl or type an opening sentence, paragraph and/or page that will hook our readers.

Tentatively we type a word, then delete it and start again.

We worry about how to begin, where to begin and when to begin.

Do we start with an ominous sentence?

We consider it, because then our readers worry about our protagonist and are therefore inclined to want to read more.

Wait. Hmm…perhaps we should begin with a sentence that displays our mastery of prose.

No, there’s no time for that. We have to hook our readers immediately and can’t risk having them lose interest while we describe the way the sun spills over the horizon.

Do we begin mid-moment, when our main character is running for her/his life?

There’s a plethora of alternatives and an infinite number of ways that we may word such circumstances.

Upon crossing that threshold into our make-believe world, we worry about what we’ll do next! Sometimes we will take a few tentative steps along that journey until we find our rhythm and lunge into a sprint of storytelling.

We’ll write a few chapters, following the path paved by our characters then suddenly we will feel lost.

“Where are we?”

“How did we get here?”

Abandoned, we begin to feel doubt and wonder what we’ll do next. We worry that our story has lost its excitement and worry that it isn’t interesting enough. We question ourselves and wonder: “Will anyone even want to read this?”

Our worrying hinders our progress and ushers in that thief of creative thesis, Writer’s Block!

After a few days, weeks or even months of thunderous silence, we begin to worry if we will ever recapture our momentum. And when our imaginary friends offer no hint of returning, we worry if we will ever finish our story.

Quit worrying, my friends! Shed that robe and pick up that pen -or keyboard- and get back to doing telling your story.

Read –see previous post "Write, Write, Write...Right?" AND Write. Allow your mind to relax in order to find clarity and allow the winds of inspiration to linger through the valleys of your imagination.

In the end, you’ll reflect on it and admit that you did all that worrying for nothing.

“Let no feeling of discouragement prey upon you, and in the end you are sure to succeed!” Abraham Lincoln

Show AND Tell

Danny Harris once said, "Storytelling: the world's second oldest profession."

I'm inclined to agree, yet I can't help but feel that the world's earliest storytellers didn't do it for profit. Theirs, I believe, was a desire to share a wonderful experience -even if sometimes it was merely an imaginary one- that would be passed down through the ages.

Oral traditions that later came to be etched on the walls of the earth, leaving an indelible impression that would stand the test of time.

Have you ever heard the adage: "If these walls could talk..."?

Well, if they could talk, what would they say?

It could be argued that walls indeed have spoken when we consider the rock art found around the globe from ancient times. The painted symbols from stories on cave walls left by the Australian Aborigines; the cave paintings which date back more than 40,000 years found throughout Europe; the cave art dating to Neolithic times in what is the modern-day Sahara desert that depict lush grasslands and flowing rivers, reveal religious rituals and communicate the details of the lives of our ancestors. Walls have even divulged the passage into the Afterlife as depicted within the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs. Silence has proven golden as the whispers of the dead have echoed across millennia to tell us stories of memories long forgotten.

Our purpose as storytellers could be debated as a matter of subjectivity but our goal remains the same: to fulfill a need of our species, which longs to tell and hear/read tales that whisk us away into another realm...a parallel universe that is sometimes quite different from our world.

The evolution of storytelling has gone from oral traditions to visual art, from tales of a bard to the prose of The Immortal Bard, William Shakespeare. Thus, it is imperative for modern storytellers to recognize what is necessary to achieve our end.

To put the matter compendiously, we must show AND tell.

We must utilizes our senses and communicate with our readers through our senses to draw them INTO our stories. Robert Olen Butler, winner of the Pulitzer Prize in Fiction who teaches graduate fiction at Florida State University, best described this as "sensual writing."

In the book, From Where You Dream:The Process of Writing Fiction, Janet Burroway shares with us his lectures where he emphasizes that "the point of contact for the reader is going to be an emotional one because emotions reside in the senses."

We must keep this in mind when we're describing our scenes, because if we want our readers to join us then we must do more than merely invite them into our story, we must lure them in. Utilizing our senses to show them the scene, show them the story, not simply tell it, and to do this effectively it is essential that we be a fly on the wall.

The following is an excerpt from my mythopoeic fantasy novel, Magical Universe:The Amulet of Alamin...

An icy breeze rushed through the cave that only Inanna felt, and she knew it was the demon lurking in the shadows for her child. Fear took her; their voices faded, as though she was under water, and suddenly the cave was cloaked in complete darkness. She was suddenly aware that they weren't alone, and the presence she felt, she knew was unnatural. Her breath fogged as it escaped her, and the darkness pressed against her soul like heavy stones upon her chest.

There was no sound. She trembled, looking up to see a grimacing, cruel face looming before her with two eyes piercing her heart; they were cold, and sharp, unblinking. A grip, frozen and unrelenting, seized her throat. The icy touch chilled her to the core and she struggled to breathe while attempting to scream.

Far and faint, the voices of her family called out to her frantically. They seemed to echo from high above, like a lover's last call trapped in a dying dream. Her stare strained against the gloom, but they continued calling more and more anxiously until she escaped the trance and their voices were clear, again.

"Your son must wear this amulet at all times to protect him from the Edimmu, Lilitu, and other demons!" Ereshki said, hastily fastening a leather cord around his neck.

​Inanna caressed the Cuneiform script incised on the tiny tablet attached to the cord. She sought comfort in the spell; the presence of the demon vanished as her cousins helped her to her feet. Ereshki tore strips of cloth from her own garments and carefully, but quickly, wrapped it about the child as he fed. Etana extinguished the flame, and for a brief instant, only their nervous breathing could be heard. The trickle of water along the walls of the tunnels fell behind a curtain of shouting amongst the soldiers who hurriedly searched the caves for them.

End scene.

Don't simply TELL your readers where they are...you must SHOW them where they are if you want them to join the journey and remain entranced by your story. Account for minute details because the smallest things will make the biggest difference, however it is imperative that not over do it. Tell your readers JUST enough detail, show your readers JUST enough detail, and allow them to fill in the blanks with their own imagination.

Neustadt International Prize for Literature and the 1982 Nobel Prize in Literature recipient, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the author of One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the time of Cholera, is also "noted for leaving out seemingly important details and events so the reader is forced into a more participatory role in the story development."

He'll describe the heat, stench, and poverty-striken neighborhoods of a Carribean port where his stories take place, but the name of the locale isn't provided. In the minds of some this is a seemingly trivial truth, however it remains true and effective because in a strange way I find that it adds to the mysteriousness that draws me into his world.

I admire and strive to emulate the method in which he provides meticulous details that paint a perfect picture in the cinema of my mind: "There was no sleeper more elegant than she, with her curved body posed for a dance and her hand across her forehead." Garcia-Marquez describing Fermina Daza in Love in the Time of Cholera.

I'd like to stress that the phrase "cinema of the mind" is how Robert Olen Butler advises writers to write. Utilize your senses: sight, touch, smell, taste, and sound...think of how you remember things in your memory and your dreams, then translate it with your creativity. When you do this, you will reveal the necessary details that bring your story to life, and will do more than tell your reader a story, you will show them where they are.

Perhaps your prose will paint a picture that will whisper across time.


"In many shamanic societies, if you came to a medicine person complaining of being disheartened, dispirited, or depressed, they would ask one of four questions: When did you stop dancing? When did you stop singing? When did you stop being enchanted by stories? When did you stop finding comfort in the sweet territory of silence?" ~Gabrielle Roth, American dancer and musician

Write, Write, Write...Right?

Stephen King once said, "If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that."

As writers, we journey along a path filled with ideas, adventures and breathtaking scenery. On occasion, we find ourselves alone on a dirt road with open fields of dead crops. There are moments when our imaginary friends converse with us, offer us trinkets of plot twists and a sip from a creative concoction like gypsies that come and go as they please, and we indulge to our hearts' content.

What happens when our friends desert us for days, weeks or months at a time? When they choose not to talk with us and linger along another road to avoid crossing our paths, we are left to wander aimlessly along the valleys of our thoughts.

It gets lonely.

Some might say that a writer who isn't a recluse isn't a writer at all, and there is some truth to that, because we usually prefer that time alone, we need that silence to be able to hear the whispers of our imaginary friends and carry on that conversation. We need that undisturbed block of time to lose ourselves and find that hidden treasure that others will want to lose themselves in too!

But when we can't bear the silence, and when we feel abandoned by characters that saunter into our stories to remind us that they exist, even if only in our imagination, then we must read!

This may sound counter-intuitive to a writer, since our primary objective is to write. Write, write, write. Right?

It's who we are, it's what we do!

Then it happens. We become parched. We thirst for that creative juice that ignites our fanciful ideas, much like that person who gets drunk and thinks that they're ex-lover wants to hear from them in the middle of the night, and we write everything that comes to mind.

When this doesn't happen, however, then we have to be open to the alternative.

Read.

Read something that pertains to your story. I have found that research material i.e. mythology, ancient history, or physics helps to lure my imaginary friends out of hiding. They catch that scent of inspiration and quickly return to add their "two cents," because they can no more resist the urge to return than we writers can resist the urge to write.

So read, my friends. Read whatever you can get your hands on, feast your minds on those countless pages that someone else wrote while their imaginary friends talked with them and you may just find what it is that you need to write!

"Writers Block: When your imaginary friends stop talking to you." ~Linda Nee

Escape the Inescapable

You need to cease reading this particular post and plot your escape! Go. Now. Quickly. Before it's too late!

You can't do it, can you? It's not as easy as it sounds, is it?

Want to know what is even more difficult?

Escaping the conundrum of writing yourself into a corner.

Yep, that is correct. Here I am, with two of my main characters in my latest novel; wandering through the mountains east of Egypt on a journey to the Red Sea when a fierce wind swept over us with heavy rolling clouds and the low rumble of an angry god warning us to seek cover. We raced into a cave just as a downpour drenched the region, illuminated by flashes of light in the sky and we found ourselves cornered by a mysterious figure that shadowed our every move since our arrival in the mountains.

The predicament?

Well, first, we are losing time now being trapped inside a cave and roaming deeper into the earth when we should be continuing our journey east to the sea. Our goal is to travel north by boat and arrive at the ports of Egypt along the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. Once there, we have to concoct a plan to infiltrate the country & find Kanika, but how will we manage this when my Nubian friends aren't permitted to enter the Two Lands?

When you write yourself into a corner, do not fret, my friends. Take a step back, breathe, and read. Yes, you heard correctly. Read.

Read something that pertains to your frame of mind, or read a novel that you enjoy escaping into. You can't unlock a lock by using the Force. Believe me, I've attempted this feat and almost had an aneurysm! To unlock a lock, you need a key -or a safety pin for those of you with rather unscrupulous methods- and you must insert that key, and turn.

Fortunately for me, I have a vast personal library of books on Ancient Civilizations, Mythology, Deities and Demons. I escaped this realm and fell into the legends of the past...I essentially journeyed through inter-dimensional space and time to unlock the lock.

Do I thank God, the gods, the fates or just plain old good fortune? I'm not quite sure, yet, but certainly I am grateful for what transpired. I figured out how to evade the dreaded dead-end by weaving together fact and myth, with a wave of my "soft-tip red-ink Bic" wand. (Sorry to say that it does not possess a phoenix feather at the core). I formulated a new plot twist to strengthen my story, increase the intrigue and make matters worse for my protagonist.

I achieved my escape without leaving my seat. Come to think of it, I've often been an escapist. Just ask my teachers. I often daydreamed in class, writing or drawing, and seldom did my homework because my mind was always somewhere else in some other realm. Imagining a story or reading chapters in my history books that I wasn't supposed to read because I needed to escape...I needed to learn more than what I was being taught. Even then, I was formulating a plan for how I would flee from the stagnant world I knew to create a better life for my family.

It isn't easy, but despite my life choices, scripting my fate and writing myself into a corner, I'm still writing and I will successfully emulate Houdini's act of escaping the inescapable.

"All the best stories are but one story in reality - the story of escape. It is the only thing which interests us all and at all times, how to escape." ~A.C. Benson

Keep Moving Forward

Have you ever attempted to create a ball with a handful of sand?

It's quite different than with packable snow and that's the challenge we face as writers. Realistically, that's the challenge we all face in life. A desert of words stretches far and wide beyond your starting point -a blank page- but what do you do with what rests at your feet?

Words must be chosen carefully, whether we are writing or interacting with people on a daily basis. The path we decide must be considered prudently because if we embark on a journey in the wrong direction, we risk losing our sense of direction -our sense of right and wrong- and lost beyond assistance.

We'll hope for that oasis to alleviate our torture, to assist us in redirecting our path in the right direction, but too often a mirage proves illusory and we arrive at place that resembles our point of origin. What then?

Sometimes, we scrap the paper or delete the page and begin anew.

Sometimes.

Yet, there are other moments when we have developed an attachment to our characters, to our worlds, to our stories and we are reluctant to merely vanquish them from our lives. We have invested too much of ourselves into them, and to simply press delete sometimes feels like we've eliminated a part of ourselves.

Is this how we die? Bit by bit, piece by piece? Word by word, mistake-by-mistake, rejection letter by rejection letter? How do we overcome the obstacles that arise? How do we climb that dune, find more desert spanning beyond the horizon and still find the energy to keep moving forward? How do we face these trials and decide that our dream must live?

I find myself on the mountain of my life's dreams. I have continued to climb despite the avalanche of recent setbacks and I do so with a heavy heart.

I miss my children, but I talk with them as often as I can and make the most out of our visitation weekends so that we have memories to last a lifetime. I strive to achieve validation as a writer in my pursuit for publication whilst I tend to the wounds of my pride with repeated rejection letters for representation.

I work longer hours to make ends meet, and squeeze in time for revisions on my completed manuscripts while committing time to my newest projects in the middle of the night when I should be asleep.

To ensure my children have everything they need, I've sacrificed as much as I could but find myself unable to afford my medication for my diabetes. So I make adjustments in my eating habits to avoid the dangers to which I'm at risk. I formulate solutions rather than dwell on the circumstances I created, yet at every turn the mountain grows steeper and my legs grow more tired. The air grows thinner, and my heart grows heavier.

I am a man that is flawed and ambitious, confident in my abilities yet insecure with issues of abandonment but still willing to keep moving forward. Still hopeful that I will achieve the pinnacle of my dream because I'm convinced that I was born to accomplish this task; born to be the father I am to my children and provide them with the life of security and love they deserve.

I will continue to carve my stories into this mountain, I will continue to stare down that blank page that lingers before me like a desert that threatens to exist as a daunting task, and I will continue to develop my craft and become the writer I'm destined to be, because if a universe is capable of existing by the accumulation of minute strings -see String Theory- then surely I shall one day create a ball with a handful of sand.

It's possible with water. Anything is possible with faith in yourself, and in what you are determined to achieve.

"Many of the great achievements of the world were accomplished by tired and discouraged individuals who kept moving forward."

The Sacrificial Lamb

I had to kill him.......OFF!

It was necessary, because he wasn't necessary. After having beta-readers read my manuscript and offer their feedback, it became evident that one character in my novel was merely just along for the ride. Ultimately I arrived at the realization that he -like many of the nameless faces throughout the course of human history- did nothing to enrich the story, to leave his indelible mark and became unforgettable.

This didn't make him any less important, because a person who lives a short life is still capable of doing important deeds. Although I had originally envisioned him to play a role in my story akin to C-3PO or Peregin "Pippin" Took, as the twists and turns burrowed deeper into the legend of my novel like a river cutting through the terrain of the earth, he became more obsolete and needed to be eliminated.

Characters, like the story itself, have this uncanny ability to "come to life" for a writer, and impose their will. Wodinaz the Wizard, Inanna and Dumuzi -the parents of Alulim, Manu and Aya the Immortals all flourished and BECAME real, they all took action and became essential by shaping the course of events that unfolded in Ancient Sumer, circa 2300B.C.E. however this other character, he never did that. I came to the realization that the story could be told without his presence, and as a result he had to die.

It wasn't that he lacked bravery or that he wasn't noble, because when the moment came and it was imperative for the sake of Inanna's safety, he took action and made a decision to die a warrior's death. In that regard, he made a valuable contribution to the legend, but that is where his role in the script of destiny came to an abrupt end.

And to quote Hector when he prepared to do battle with Achilles at the gates of Troy, remarking on the fallen cousin of the legendary warrior's cousin, Patroclus: "I gave the dead boy the honor he deserved."

And to quote Achilles in response, "You have him the honor of your sword!"

Yes, I gave this one character the honor of a warrior's sword, but at least he went down fighting.

To quote one of the greatest warriors of legend once more, I recall a scene from the epic war film Troy when Achilles was summoned to fight Boagrius, when a boy spoke with Achilles about the Thessalonian warrior:

"The Thessalonian you're fighting, he's the biggest man I've ever seen...I wouldn't want to fight him."

Achilles turned to the boy and said, "That's why no one will remember your name."

Perhaps the character in my story will be forgotten, lost like a scent in the breeze of time, and as my series develops into the 20 books that I'm currently projecting, his actions may be eclipsed by grander deeds, but at least he will not be remembered as a coward. Someday, I hope, that they will reflect upon his one decisive moment, the moment that defined his presence in my novel -however short-lived it was- and realize that his sacrifice allowed for the story to continue and for destiny to be fulfilled.

"They never fail who die in a great cause."
~George Gordon Byron

Who Are You?

I recently posed the query: "Who are you?" ...& it has led others to inquire: "Is it the things that you do, or the person that you are, who make you, you?"

Many have provided insight into their own perspective... commenting that:

"The things you do stem from the person you are, and who you are can change based on what you do. It's an endless loop."

...or...

"It's the things that you do that make you the person that you are."

...&...

"The person you are generates the things you do, which makes you the person you are.... Make sense?

Which leads Me to ask...

...but what makes a person DO those things that which make them who they are?

& is THAT the key to the riddle?

For example: We all know Michael Jordan was a great basketball player, a tremendous athlete & a fierce competitor.

Yet many of Us (at least those fans who followed his career, read his biographies, & such) have heard that he's been a competitive individual since his youth, long before he was a great basketball player, & tremendous athlete.

By process of elimination, We may conclude that he was a fierce competitor before he DID what he did, to be known as the other two things: great basketball player, tremendous athlete.

So now We face the conundrum that requires elucidation.

What made him a fierce competitor? What innate quality or trait may We attest this competitiveness to?

What made him a competitor before he was known as a competitor?

What makes an artist decide to pick up a paint brush & decide to create an image to share? But doesn't a creative person already possess an innate inclination to be creative, since it's obvious there are many who don't?

What drives a philosopher to ponder profound thought?

What ignites the inquisitiveness of a physicist to seek out the equation, that tiny one-inch equation that will grant Us a glimpse into the Mind of God? (Akin to Einstein's famous equation - E=MC~squared - that explains the macrocosm of Our existence, & gravity).

Taking that a step further, let Us look at the Christ. Everyone knows I'm not a religious zealot. My idea of Holy Water is in a bottle of scotch! However, if We were to apply the question/answer to this historical figure: "Is it the things that U do or the person that U are, that make U, U?"

Was Jesus the Son of God prior to His "miracles" & crucifixion, or was he only a deity after doing the things that people have attributed to his status as a divine figure?

If these individuals are who they are: thinkers, artists, musicians, competitors, romantics, writers, mathematicians, etc., prior to being known as such, then they are who they long before they do what they do.

Which begs the question: "Who Are You?"

Heart of a Man

For as long as I can remember, I have been in love with you. I mean, truly, passionately, unconditionally, head-over-heels… in love with you. I knew this even before we met because love sees with the heart, long before the mind sees through the eyes.

While the cynic may not believe in love at first sight, the romantic understands that it is simply the recognition of a soul mate. It's the difference between loving & living from being in love & feeling alive. It's possible, just not always salient to everyone.

Think of life…life, which existed long before we lived, just because we didn't experience it, doesn't mean it did not exist. However, once we draw our first breath, once we exhale a piece of ourselves, only to be inhaled by each other…our new life begins & the expression of how we have always felt becomes the love we live. I feel it, I crave it, I know it…I always have, because for as long as I can remember, I have been in love with you.



Before I saw you, the canvas of my heart was missing the most essential beauty of a masterpiece. Instead all I had were the transparent images that attempted to stoke the fires of my daydreams with paint-less brushes. Colors didn't exist & sight truly saw no vision through my eyes. My senses wasted away in the long hours of the day & the loneliness of quiet nights. What hope felt as "should have been," had yet to be; & what was a reality, I hoped was nothing more than a terrible dream. Alternatively, I realized that the dreams I dreamt were all I had to hold on to. Destiny was on a string & I was hanging on by a thread.



I was about to let go, I was on the verge of allowing myself to fall into the bottomless realms of hopelessness when you appeared; seemingly, out of thin air. Suddenly, I experienced a change of season…& the beauty of winter became the comfort of spring. You smiled at me once & I danced in the rain of April. I imagined the feeling of being in your embrace & I was swept away by a summer breeze. You said "hello" & autumn dawned…my green turned to gold & the falling of leaves represented so much more. You were an arm's length away & yet I could not touch you. I heard your voice yet I was not permitted to listen to your thoughts. Circumstances dictated fate, instead of it being the other way around. Still, regardless of what stood between us, it was beyond love at first sight; it was a re-kindling of emotions. My heart recognized yours & love simply made that connection. A connection that could not be, a connection that would not be…& it wasn't because we didn't want it to be; we just knew it shouldn't be, not under the circumstances. Seasons changed & we lived our lives a heart beat apart. Once again, I was about to let go…but then I realized that I was unable to let go of someone I never even held.



All these years' later, circumstances changed & still, we can't be together. Your smile haunts me when I close my eyes & your voice brings me comfort when I listen to you speak. Conventional wisdom warns that our conversations are forbidden; yet we disregard the cautionary whispers of our conscience. The sun sets on our pillow talk & a new dawn blankets our days of this distance, all while our thoughts dance to the serenade of our voices. Laughter chimes in on the occasional moment when we recollect the sweetness of yester-years memories & a silence lingers comfortably as we hope these dialogues don't end. Your soul makes love to my senses when you speak & your eyes kiss my heart when you smile…this is an intimacy that only you and I share. From this distance, from a safe distance, this is as close as I have ever been to you; & while circumstances change, my need to feel for you remains the same.



An ageless beauty, a timeless love, an endless dream…the essence of perfection that is you has captured my imagination & stolen my heart. The years will pass, time will continue to count the seconds into the inevitable of tomorrow & a piece of me will still reach out to you; knowing that I may never embrace you in my arms. A summer breeze will brush me with the scent of heavenly you & I will reminisce on what almost was. I will walk in the rain on a warm spring day & a flowerbed will remind me of the morning I watched you sleep. I will age with the trees & look upon the coming of autumn with a changed perspective, finding new beauty in the gold of each fall. A piece of my soul will escape me in a breath & you might see it in the crisp cool air on a winter day. You will return to me one night when the snow falls in the cold of December, kissing me on the forehead & melting into the depths of my mind. You will remind me of the love I feel, you will remind me of the life I lived. Not destined to have you in this lifetime, I will surely find you in the next. Although my heart will age & beat slower as I reach the senectitude in this cycle of life, I shall never grow tired of loving you because this feeling will never grow old. I will need you in my ripe old age as I needed you before we met & as I need you now. This isn't about, wanting what I can't have, this is simply about loving a lover with this heart of a man.

****So why did I write this piece? Well, for the most obvious of reasons...conflict! Stir up conflict, establish it & allow it to drive deep into the emotions of your characters. This is what makes us relate to them, root for them and believe they exist. Make them flawed, heartfelt individuals who care about others & suddenly your readers will want to accompany them along their journey. They will want to see them through this conflict in anticipation of the climax. Create the conflict and then determine how you will paint the picture of "happily ever after." If, that is, how you want it to end.

"The hottest love, has the coldest end." ~Socrates